


Under Your Skin

by AliceInKinkland



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Character Study, F/F, Kink Negotiation, Moral Ambiguity, Piercings, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInKinkland/pseuds/AliceInKinkland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root's not sure if she can be a good person, but she wants to be good to Shaw. Even if that means piercing her for fun. (<i>Especially</i> if that means piercing her for fun).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing [bruisespristine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bruisespristine/pseuds/bruisespristine) whose work y'all should totally check out.
> 
> set late season three. the title is so cheesy, sorrynotsorry.

Root is surprised to learn, when she and Shaw finally start fucking, that Shaw’s minimalist lifestyle extends to not owning a single sex toy. She had expected that, like the fridge full of firearms, a large and varied toy collection would be one of the exceptions that proved Shaw’s rule.

 “We’ll have to get some, then,” says Root, pushing Shaw against a wall and digging her nails sharply into Shaw’s wrists. Shaw groans softly at Root’s rough touch, tensing and releasing her ab muscles against Root’s stomach.  It’s the first time Root’s been in Shaw’s apartment without kidnapping being her main goal, and she still can’t quite believe any of this is happening, but she’s not about to question her good fortune. “I mean, zip ties and knives are fun and all, but we don’t want this to get boring.”

“You got something in mind?”

“Maybe,” Root concedes, because one thing she can’t imagine lacking when Shaw is pinned against her is ideas, “but I want to know what you like. What’s something you’ve always wanted to try and never had the chance?” Root asks, then pauses, bending down to nip at Shaw’s exposed neck, watching Shaw’s muscles tighten as she anticipates the moment Root bites down. “Tell me how to hurt you, Sameen,” Root whispers, and then she does bite, scraping teeth against sinew, trying to leave a mark.

Shaw is quiet for a long moment, angling her neck into the grip of Root’s jaws and her hip into the apex of Root’s legs. Root wonders if she should go back to her more subtle boundary testing, her less direct methods of determining Shaw’s wishes, if she’s violating the delicate game they play so well by asking Shaw her desires like this. Something about it feels awkward in a way she’s not used to, in a way that activates that urge of hers to be someone else for a while. But then Root pulls back, and as she’s admiring the raw and reddened skin of Shaw’s throat, Shaw says, “You ever pierced anyone, Root?”

Shaw’s words hit Root hot and urgent between her legs, and even though that’s not a kink Root’s ever given much thought to before, it suddenly seems like the sexiest thing she can possibly imagine. “No,” Root admits, mind already making plans, “but I’m a fast learner.”

* * *

Root doesn’t like the palpable relief she feels at how much Shaw likes it when Root hurts her, Root reflects afterwards, when she’s left Shaw’s apartment and is walking back to her own temporary accommodation through the bustle of New York at 1am. It reminds Root that Shaw’s pleasure has not always been her main concern, reminds her of the countless nights, back when Root was searching for the Machine, that Root spent replaying her and Shaw’s first meeting over and over in her head, getting off on the thought of Shaw at her mercy, and not in the comparably sweet and mutual way they’re doing things now.

That fact is, Root is starting to feel twinges of guilt at odd moments—not all the time, and not always when the feeling is most apt, but she’s beginning to remember past acts of violence with something other than dispassionate apathy peppered with the occasional shiver of pleasure. She’s beginning to reconsider the plans she makes, trying to minimize the number of people she has to shoot or otherwise maim. She wouldn’t actually want to hurt Sameen now, except in ways that were mutually agreeable.

But that hasn’t stopped her mind from wandering back to that hotel room almost every night even now. She’s lost count of the number of times she’s pictured the way Shaw’s wrists might have strained against their plastic bondage if Root had really pressed that iron against Shaw’s skin. That moment—and the others after: the way Shaw’s body jerked in her bed when Root tasered her, the thrill of zip tying Shaw’s wrists to that steering wheel—never fails to get Root off, even as she continues to stumble towards something resembling a moral compass.

Sometimes Root wants to apologize to Shaw, but she isn’t sure what that would look like or what it would mean. Neither of them really does apologies, or the kinds of conversations that contain them. Sometimes she wants to ask if Shaw ever touches herself at the memory of that first meeting the way Root does, but Root only has words for that question in the form of vague innuendo, which Shaw invariably answers with equally vague deflection.

It doesn’t really make Root feel better.

Luckily, Root’s guilt, if that’s even the best name to call the dully uncomfortable feeling, is never more than a muted and ephemeral sensation, a slight twinge in her body somewhere that she has trouble identifying. The Machine can only reprogram her so far; she’s still human, after all, with all the imperfections that entails. Root just hopes that’s good enough for Shaw.

* * *

Root picks up piercing needles and gauze and antiseptic wipes and a sharps container in Seattle when she has a couple hours off during one of her errands for the Machine. That night, she practices in her hotel room, even as the voice in her ear reminds her that she needs to be on a plane in six hours and that taking this opportunity to sleep would be highly advisable.

She lays her new toys on the bed and opens the box of 23 gauge needles, the smallest ones she has. She rubs the antiseptic wipe across the skin of her thigh, recalling the instructions she read on her laptop earlier as she watched her number in a café. She opens one of the packages in the box and takes out a needle—it’s short, with a green head and a tip that looks deliciously sharp. Root lets her breath grow deep and steady, pressing the metal against her flesh, then slides it in on the exhale, watching the tip disappear beneath the surface of her skin and then reappear as she struggles not to cry out.

Root might not be as much of a masochist as Shaw, but she can appreciate some well-applied pain, and this hurts in a way she mostly likes—it’s a sharp, localized sting, like teeth or fingernails, and it throbs as she takes the second needle from the box. Root had her ears pierced by Hanna when she was eleven, with a sewing needle and a potato and a pair of earrings from the dollar store, and she’s too removed from who she was then to remember what that was like, but she wonders idly if she felt this same endorphin rush.

She adds another needle, and another, and notes the slight irritation she feels as the discomfort of invasion builds. This isn’t something she wants someone else to do to her, Root realizes. But the more she thinks about it, the more it seems like something she wants to do to Shaw. She hopes Shaw still feels the same way.

Root switches to the thicker 21 and 19 gauge needles, feeling her breathing grow shallower each time she penetrates her skin, and forcing herself to keep it steady. She tries to create an even row down the top of her thigh, ten neat parallel lines, ten tiny loci of sensation. She runs a black-painted nail along the row, pressing firmly on already-tender flesh, watching capillaries burst and imagining the bruises she’s creating for later. The pressure of her fingers on her skin’s surface becomes pressure of metal into flesh beneath it, and it’s a kind of sharp but throbbing pain that leaves Root lightheaded and panting.

She thinks of Shaw as she pulls each needle out, mopping up droplets of blood with gauze before they can get on the hotel sheets. She drops each needle into the sharps container and imagines Shaw’s body decorated in metal, wonders if Shaw would tense or relax as Root slid each needle out of her, if it would feel as exciting as she’s imagining now, this act of literally getting under Shaw’s skin.

Root can’t resist touching herself then, sliding one hand between her legs even as she uses the other to wipe her thigh with more antiseptic. She bites her lip at the sting of alcohol on open wounds, and longs to see Shaw react to that as well—would her hips kern towards Root’s hand the way Root’s do? Root closes her eyes and lies back, letting her fingers dip into her wetness and rub firmly against her clit. The pain of the fresh piercings and the thought of Shaw gasping under Root’s fingers quickly sends her over the edge and leaves her breathless and sore and suddenly exhausted.

Maybe a few hours of sleep wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

* * *

Root has never put a lot of thought into being a good partner before. The truth is, she doesn’t really do relationships any more than it seems Shaw does. Sex for her is, or was until recently, usually a means to an end—sometimes just a chance to unwind and then move on, but more often a chance to steal someone’s DNA for a frame job or to plant bugs in places without a wifi network to hack.

Root knows she’s good at sex. She’s good at looking distractingly hot, good at conveying attraction whether or not she actually feels it, good at getting people off, good at getting herself off, and good at faking getting off when other people touch her. Sex is one of the most risky, but also one of the most powerful, ways to manipulate people, and Root knows all about manipulation.

This thing with Shaw? Root knows less about that.

Root decides there are certain things she’s sure of. She likes women and definitely doesn’t like men; that she has known for most of her life. She likes to hurt people, for all sorts of reasons, and she never runs out of ideas as to how. She likes to control people, to figure them out and then make them dance for her like puppets on strings, and the fact that there’s something morally objectionable about that is a fact she’s grown practiced ignoring.

She wants Shaw; this she has known since she first read Shaw’s file, and the knowledge burns inside her constantly with a kind of pain that’s intriguing and frustrating in equal measure. She wants to hurt Shaw, in many more inventive ways than she has thus far. But she doesn’t want to control Shaw. She doesn’t want to hack her, doesn’t want to reverse-engineer her personality or read her every action like lines of code. She wants Shaw to be free, for Shaw to have choices, and this, Root realizes, is what’s throwing her off balance. She isn’t used to factoring someone else’s wants into her plans like this, and especially not used to giving those wants equal weight with her own.

Root wants Shaw to be happy. Not because it will get Root closer to something else that she wants, or even because it will make Root happy, but simply because.

The whole thing is making Root’s calculations much more complicated.

* * *

 

“You sure you still wanna try this?” asks Root, dumping three boxes of needles on Shaw’s plain black sheets. They’re new; the Machine told her not to carry her first piercing equipment collection with her onto a cross-country flight, which Root supposes is fair, although she’s pretty sure she could have gotten everything past security somehow.

Shaw gives her a blank look. “Yeah,” she says, “why else would I have asked you?”

Root grins. “Then strip, and lie down on your back.” She feels her breath catch as Shaw obeys. Shaw takes her clothes off as though Root isn’t watching, and Root loves the straightforwardness of Shaw’s movements, the rippling muscles, the unselfconscious nakedness.

It’s been a long time since Root’s done anything as though no one is watching. Soon, if Samaritan comes online, it’s possible none of them will ever be able to forget the multiple warring sets of eyes on them even for a moment. Even for moments like this one.

Soon, Root reminds herself, it’s possible they’ll all be dead.

The thought makes Root forget her carefully-planned scene for a moment in favour of pinning Shaw to the bed, pressing as much of their bodies together as she can. She pulls Shaw’s hair free from its ponytail and winds it around her fist, yanking hard enough that she can see Shaw’s eyes watering. Shaw seems to sense the sudden urgency between them and jerks her head against Root’s grip, less an act of resistance than an acknowledgement of need.

“Sameen,” says Root, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice, “Do you know why I want to put these inside you?” She sits up, straddling Shaw’s hips, and holds up a box of needles, her other hand still gripping Shaw’s hair. Shaw raises her eyebrows.

“I want to give you something to remind you of me. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up, and you’ll be covered in all these little marks, all these bruises and tiny wounds, and—” Root can tell Shaw is getting restless beneath her, unsure how to deal with whatever it is Root’s saying. Root’s not quite sure what she’s getting at either, not sure how to articulate all the things she feels when she looks at Shaw.

“Never mind that,” says Root, letting herself perk up once again, “I think it’s time we get started, don’t you? Tell me, Sameen—where do you want me to pierce you?”

Shaw gestures to her chest area, above her breasts, and Root grins. “Excellent. That means I’ll be able to stay right where I am.” She grinds her crotch against Shaw’s stomach. “OK,” she reaches behind her for the boxes of needles. “I’ve got three sizes, so we can start smaller and work our way up. Oh, don’t worry, I promise I’ll still make it hurt a lot.” She sets the boxes down beside them on the bed and reaches for her bag, pulling out gauze, alcohol swabs, a sharps container, and black nitrile gloves.

“I wasn’t sure about the gloves,” she admits, “because I know we haven’t used anything before, but I figured blood is different than the…fluids we’ve shared so far, so I wanted…I thought you might like having that choice on the table.”

“Thanks,” says Shaw sincerely. “I think I’m good, though.”

“We’ll leave those for playing doctor, then,” Root says, smiling at the way Shaw rolls her eyes. The idea of touching Shaw’s flesh with her own as she makes her bleed sends a wave of excitement through Root, and she mentally thanks the Machine for booking her and Shaw those STI tests a couple weeks before their Anchorage trip. She rubs her hands with one of the alcohol swabs, and Shaw’s chest with the other, watching Shaw’s skin flush red-brown with anticipation.

“I want you to breathe for me, Sameen,” says Root, taking the first needle out of the box. “And Shaw—I tested this on myself, but I’m still not an expert, so I hope you’re OK with—”

Shaw shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “You didn’t need to pierce yourself, Root.”

“I promise, it was my pleasure,” Root grins, biting her lip. Underneath her, Shaw’s eyes flutter closed at Root’s words, and her hips jerk upwards as much as they can, still held in place between Root’s legs.

Root unwraps and uncaps the needle, throwing the cap in the garbage can beside Shaw’s bed. Shaw’s breath is deep and steady, her eyes open once again and staring right at Root, caught between lust, curiosity, and challenge. Root presses the tip of the needle against the skin above Shaw’s left breast and slides it in, enjoying the small growl that rises from the back of Shaw’s throat. She pushes the needle out again, watching Shaw’s face twitch momentarily as the now-duller tip pierces her again on the way out. A tiny drop of blood pools at the exit wound, and Root licks her lips at the sight.

“That feel nice, sweetie?” she asks. “I mean, maybe not _nice_ , exactly, but—”

“Fuck yeah, Root,” says Shaw, her voice deep with need. Root suddenly loves the idea of how wet Shaw must be getting, and of the way her arousal will build and build with no immediate outlet as Root drives each tiny needle into Shaw’s skin. She remembers the restlessness she felt when she pierced herself, and wonders if Shaw will squirm eventually as well, struggling for an escape she doesn’t really want to achieve.

Sure enough, three needles later, Shaw’s hips push up against Root’s once again, the wild movement mirroring the desperate look in Shaw’s eyes. Root puts her hand on Shaw’s stomach and shoots her a glance of mock-disapproval. She clicks her tongue, and Shaw relaxes onto the bed once more, breathing heavily.

God, Root wants to fuck her right this minute.

Instead, Root continues with this different kind of penetration, outlining Shaw’s cleavage in two symmetrical curves of metal. She’s switched to the largest needles now, and each time she pushes one in Shaw grits her teeth and moangrowlwhimpers, her nostrils flaring, her fists gripping the sheets beneath her. It’s the most gorgeous Root’s ever seen Shaw, all raw power offered up to Root’s hands.

Root’s nearing the centre of Shaw’s chest now, having worked her way inwards from both sides. There’s less flesh to work with here, less padding between Shaw’s skin and the underlying bone. Root slides the next needle in slower than usual and Shaw groans, her body tensing beneath Root, her hands punching the mattress. The needle, when it emerges, is angled slightly off from the row of parallel lines on either side of it. Root bites her lip.

“Oh no,” she pouts, “I did this one all wrong.” She pulls the needle out slightly then drives it back through Shaw’s skin at a different angle, watching Shaw’s face contort in pain as the dulled tip breaks through in a new spot. Shaw’s hands find Root’s thighs and grip them tightly, nails digging into Root’s flesh through her jeans.

“Was that too much?” Root asks seriously. Shaw shakes her head, so Root grins and presses her thumb against the latest piercing, watching Shaw tense at the new sensation. She presses harder, moving her thumb to each needle in turn, then scratches at the skin around each piercing, making Shaw’s skin redden and warm beneath Root’s fingers.

There’s something endlessly fascinating to Root in the way Shaw responds to pain, the way her body reaches towards the source of the sensation without shame or pretense. Root loses herself in the way she can make Shaw twist and grind beneath her, pulling and twisting the skin around the needles and watching Shaw’s increasingly enthusiastic reactions. Root knows her own arousal must be pooling by now, soaking her panties and maybe even her jeans, pressing warm and wet and needy against Shaw’s belly.

“I’m going to take these out now,” Root warns Shaw, reaching for the sharps container. She runs her fingernails across the line of needles one more time, then pulls them out in twos and threes, watching blood well up around each wound. Shaw arches her back into Root’s rough touch, biting her lip as each needle slides out of her. Root allows herself a moment to admire the drops of red dotting Shaw’s chest before she begins soaking them up with gauze.

“Now,” says Root, letting excitement show in her voice, “this might sting a little.” She unwraps another alcohol swab and rubs it across Shaw’s skin, grinning as she’s rewarded with a whispered “ _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ ” from Shaw. Shaw’s hands are gripping the sheets once again, her head thrown back in something between desire and agony, and Root thinks that if she had known Shaw would squirm this much she would have tied her up first, let her rub her own wrists raw against zip ties as Root pierced her.

There’s always next time.

“I think it’s time for your reward, don’t you?” says Root; then, cocking her head theatrically to one side, she muses, “although I guess that was also kind of a reward in your books, wasn’t it? Hmm. Maybe that’s all you want for today?”

Shaw’s hand lunges up to grip Root’s wrist, twisting her arm at an angle that borders on painful. “Fuck me now, Root, or I swear…” she breathes, and Root hears herself moan and feels herself nod.

She spreads Shaw’s legs and settles on her knees between them, parting Shaw’s labia with her fingers and biting her lip at Shaw’s wetness. Shaw shoots her a warning look, and Root gets the message—now is not the time for teasing—so she slides two fingers into Shaw without further preamble, settling the palm of her other hand against Shaw’s clit. Root is gripped with the need to give Shaw everything she wants. She may have just topped Shaw in something more intense than anything they’ve done so far, but Root has never felt so submissive in her life.

Root fucks Shaw fast and rough, following Shaw’s violently insistent bodily cues. She adds a third finger as soon as Shaw has adjusted to the first two, concentrating to remembering the rhythm that Shaw enjoyed the last time they were together. Shaw’s cunt clenches against Root’s fingers and Root gasps and then Shaw is coming, so soon, back arched, eyes closed, caught up in pleasure in a way that takes Root’s breath away. Root slows the movement of her fingers, letting Shaw come down from her orgasm, before pulling carefully out of her.

She brings her hand to her mouth and licks Shaw’s wetness off her fingers, enjoying the way Shaw’s satiated eyes settle on her lips and the slight smile that spreads across Shaw’s face. Root knows she has things to do: divine orders to follow, morality to wrestle with or disregard, bondage techniques to brush up on. But for now, this thing, whatever it is, feels more than good enough.


End file.
